Sympathy for the Devil

Chapter One #3

Eventually, the DUI charge was dismissed, and his lawyer got him off with probation for reckless driving, but everything was different after that.

He took blame that wasn't his, and he hated me for it.

He never mentioned the kiss. He never touched me again.

And he's spent every moment since making my life hell.

It's probably what I deserve, but I hate him for it anyway.

"What did you mean?" Liam asks, calling me back to the present.

"Just that he's more protective than you," I mutter. It's a lie. Asher isn't protective. He's the devil. But Liam never sees it, no matter how often I complain. As far as he's concerned, Asher can do no wrong, and I'm just dramatic.

"You're being dramatic," my brother says right on cue, shaking his head like he just can't figure me out. "Just think about it, okay?"

"I'd rather be buried alive." I mean it. Working for Asher is, literally, the worst thing I can think of.

Liam throws his napkin at me. "So stubborn. You get that from Mom, you know."

I snort, but we both know he's right. Our mother was America's sweetheart, the movie star who could do no wrong.

But she was also the woman who once locked herself in a hotel suite for three days because a director wanted her to dye her hair.

She wound up getting her way, the movie, and a third Oscar nomination.

I think her stubborn streak is the only thing I inherited from her.

Not that the rest of the world believes me. They're convinced I'll follow in her footsteps, filling the gaping hole her premature death left in Hollywood. They look at me and see her. It's been that way since she died.

"Mom would have hated Asher," I say, just loud enough for both of them to hear me.

Liam grins, his attention ping-ponging between me and Asher, who glowers like a thundercloud.

He doesn't say anything, though. He just picks up his bottle of Peroni and drains it before setting it down again. Then, in one smooth motion, he reaches into his jacket, extracts a matte black business card, and slides it across the table toward me.

"Be at my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow to discuss your new position," he says, cold authority in his voice.

I stare at the card. His name is on the front, the Blackstock Agency logo burned into it like a fucking brand in the stock.

I push it back across the table. "Not happening."

He doesn't blink, just looks at me as if considering how to go about breaking me. "You'll be there."

The certainty in his voice is infuriating, but I can't help but match it. "Hell will freeze over first."

The words hang between us, glittering with challenge.

Asher's lips twitch, his smile slow and calculating. "Bring a coat, then, princess."

Liam laughs, thinking that smile means the fight is over, when I know it means the fight is only just starting. But Liam has always been oblivious. "You two are exactly alike," he says, gesturing between us. "That's the real problem."

I pluck the card from the table and make a show of ripping it to pieces. "No, the real problem is that Asher's never heard the word 'no' before."

"I've heard it," he says, his voice cool. "I just don't accept it."

"You will this time." I stand up, my chair scraping back with a screech that's almost satisfying. "I've lost my appetite. I'm leaving."

Liam rises, pulling me into a one-armed hug. "You'll change your mind, baby sister." He ruffles my hair. "You always do."

"Not this time," I vow, trying to ignore the way Asher's gaze burns holes in my back as I stalk out of the dining room. I mean it, though. I'd rather die than go to work for him.

Two weeks after my dinner with Liam and Asher, I quickly begin to suspect that the universe is conspiring against me.

I sit at the kitchen island in my apartment, staring at my MacBook like it's a ticking time bomb.

My inbox is full of polite, impersonal rejections from every management firm in New York.

There are so many, they blur together into a depressing wall of "Thank you for your interest," "We regret to inform you," and, my personal favorite, "Your experience is impressive, but we've decided to move forward with other candidates. "

I don't even have any experience yet, so I know they're full of shit.

I close my eyes, count to ten, and hit refresh again. Another rejection email materializes, this one from Rainer & Baldwin, a firm so minor that they're still operating out of a single rented office. I open it anyway, because masochism is my new kink.

We're sorry, but we've decided to move forward with another candidate. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Sincerely, Amanda.

Amanda. She doesn't even sign her last name, like she's afraid I'll track her down and beg in person.

I almost consider it. Almost.

Instead, I slam the laptop shut harder than I mean to. The sound echoes through the empty apartment, bouncing off the marble countertops and vaulted ceilings.

My phone vibrates.

I snatch it up, my heart surging, only to sag when I see it's just a calendar reminder to follow up with Rainer & Baldwin…as if that's necessary now.

My blood pressure spikes.

I pace the length of my apartment, my bare feet sinking into the plush blue rug, then stop at the massive windows overlooking the park. Everything out there is alive and moving, while I'm stuck in this glass box, a princess in her tower.

I run a hand through my hair, then tug on a clump of curls until it hurts.

Enough.

I don't bother with a glass. I just pry the cap off the bottle of Sancerre in the fridge and take a long pull. It's not even noon, but who cares? Maybe I'll get blackout drunk on cheap wine and wake up to find out this was all a hallucination.

I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand, then open the laptop again and stare at my options.

There aren't any. Every agency in the city has either rejected me or is outright ignoring me.

I need answers, and there's only one person in the city who might give me a straight one: Joel Gaines, a friend from college. He graduated last year and now works for Nina Livingston Talent Management. I sent him my resume weeks ago, hoping he could put in a good word for me.

I hesitate for all of two seconds, then hit the button to call him before I can lose my nerve.

He picks up on the fourth ring. "Brielle?"

"Joel." My voice comes out hoarse, though whether that's from the wine or the rage, I can't tell. "Are you busy?"

He laughs, the sound nervous. "I'm at my desk. What's up?"

I press my palm to my forehead, counting again, but it doesn't help. "I need you to tell me the truth. Did you guys even look at my resume?"

There's a pause, and I picture him nervously glancing around to see if Nina is listening. That's probably pretty accurate. Joel has always been an anxious little weirdo. It's part of why I like him.

"We looked," he says finally. "But—"

"But what?"

There's a longer pause this time. "It's not my call, Brie. I swear, if it was up to me…"

"Just tell me." My voice is shaky, more plea than demand. "Did I do something wrong? Is there something off with my resume? Or is there something I don't know?"

Joel exhales, a reluctant gust that rattles down the line like static. "It's not you. It's…" He drops his voice to a hush. "Look, off the record? Nina was ready to interview you, but word got out that nobody is supposed to hire you. Apparently, she got a phone call."

I grip the edge of the island so hard my knuckles go white. "A phone call from who?"

He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't have to. I feel the chill of certainty settle over me.

"You're fucking kidding me," I seethe. "Asher is seriously blackballing me? How is that even possible?"

Joel clears his throat, and I hear the whir of a printer in the background. "You know how this business works. One phone call from the right person and you're radioactive. No one wants Blackstock for an enemy, not when he's ruined companies for less. I'm sorry. I really am."

I stare at the marble countertop, at the pattern of veins and flecks that look like cracks spidering outward from my palm. I want to scream, or throw my laptop out the window, or crawl under the counter and never come out.

"Did he threaten her?" I ask instead.

Joel is silent, and then he sighs. "Not directly.

But yeah, he made it pretty clear that he'll destroy anyone who crosses him on this.

It was…intense. Nina has power, but not even she wants to take that risk, not when half of his clients have the power to decide if ours get to work or not.

" He swallows audibly. "I'm really sorry. "

It's not his fault. I know that. But I can't help the spike of betrayal anyway, the sick feeling in my stomach that I'm the only one fighting back while everyone else just folds, giving Asher permission to rule my life.

I hang up without saying goodbye.

My hands are shaking when I open my contacts and scroll to my brother. Liam is my last hope, which is both hilarious and pathetic, since he's never once come through with Asher when I actually needed him.

He's been in London for the last week, working on his new movie. His last text was a photo of him with his arm around Henry Cavill. I debated blocking him out of spite.

I dial anyway. He doesn't pick up, of course. Instead, his voicemail answers, his voice cheerful and breezy. "It's Liam Dabry. I'm out of the country, probably shooting something epic, but leave a message, and I'll get back to you."

I wait for the beep. "Your best friend is ruining my life again, and you're never around when I need you.

" My voice shakes, but I keep going. "I hope London is everything you want it to be.

I hope you're happy. But I'm not, and I really need you to call me back.

" I hang up before my voice cracks, and then I throw the phone across the island.

It skitters before clattering to the floor, but it doesn't break.

I glare at it for a minute, daring it to ring.

It doesn't.

My eyes sting, not with tears, but with anger so hot it could melt steel. I lean back, pressing the heels of my hands to my eyes, and take a long, shuddering breath.

I want to curl up on the couch and forget the world exists, but that isn't me. I don't give up. I don't just let people do this to me, not even when that person is Asher Blackstock. Especially when that person is Asher Blackstock. Everyone else in this city may be afraid of his wrath, but I'm not.

I get up, cross to the bathroom, and stare at my reflection. My hair is a mess, the black waves twisted and tangled around my face. There are purple shadows under my eyes. But my chin is still up, my eyes lit with unholy green fire.

I swipe the lipstick off the counter and apply a slash of red. It's messy, but I like it that way.

I grab my best suit from the closet—sleek, tailored black, with pants that make my ass look dangerous and my legs a mile long.

The blazer molds to my curves, accentuating them in all the right places so I look like I have a shape other than soft and round.

I tug it on over a thin white camisole, then roll up the sleeves to the elbow.

It's not armor, exactly, but it's as close as I'm going to get.

It makes me feel powerful and confident.

I dig out a pair of black suede heels with a four-inch stiletto. I'm not going to show up at his office looking like I've been crying. Hell no. I'm showing up like I'm ready to crush him and his dead, frozen heart.

I check my phone one last time. There's nothing from Liam. It's just me and my rage. Like usual.

I grab my keys, drop them in my purse, and square my shoulders.

If Asher wants a fight, he's going to get one. And he may have won the last round, but this time, I'm out for blood.